Those post Lenten considerations

It's springtime.  Here in Oregon, we have blooming trees, daffodils coming up in the strangest places, and two straight sunny days with temperatures over 50 degrees.  But spring also hails the end of Lent and the beginning of new life spiritually (in a symbolic sort of way).  We have prayed.  We have abstained (not to be confused with fasting).  Some of us have actually fasted.  And we have all taken a moment to reflect on the magnitude of what the Lord Jesus did for us. 

I had one such moment at the grocery store.  It involved chocolate.

Before you say it, it's not what you think.  I did not give up chocolate for Lent.  My lenten goal was to improve my powers of concentration and meditation.  Ergo, I gave up television and movies in the evening (and the rest of the day too).  Seth is trying to learn physical discipline.  He officially gave up chocolate.  But I unofficially gave up chocolate because keeping chocolate in the house while someone is abstaining from it is like eating chocolate in front of someone who's abstaining from it (or allergic).  It's just mean.

As a reward for completing his goal, I offered to bake Seth a chocolate cake.  I was at the store buying ingredients, and I realized that I could buy chocolate again.  And chocolate was everywhere:  chocolate rabbits, chocolate cookie "bunny houses,"  chocolate in pastel wrappers, chocolate in bulk bins.  It seemed like every aisle  I turned into had something chocolate at the end of it.  And it was all available!  The tempation to run down the aisles like a maniac, grabbing chocolate and throwing it into my cart seized me briefly. 

I resisted it. 

However, this thought seized me as I steered sedately toward the healthy, daily necessity dairy section.  We give up things in Lent to remind us that we can give up things in this life to see rewards in the life to come.  We also do it to remind ourselves that our inner appetites are stronger than we think they are, and we are not as strong as we like to imagine ourselves.  But we also learn that we can master small urges and temptations with diligent application.  The pursuit of righteousness under the administration of God's grace does yield results, and if you resist the devil, he does flee from you.  And someday, thanks to the infusion of Christ's life into us, all of our innocent desires will no longer be tangled up with dangerous conclusions, and everything will occupy it's proper place as we stand and praise our Lord for all the many things He has done for us.

Including making chocolate.

A housework reflection

We all have a chore that we abominate above all things.  My mother-in-law loved the kitchen but hated the laundry.  I hate cleaning bathrooms.  I'm not sure why.  It's not time consuming.  I can knock out a good bathroom in 30 minutes flat.  Maybe it's because cleaning bathrooms was my chore when I was little.  Maybe it's because we have two of them now.  My working theory is that there are so many tiny things that need to be moved before I can get down to the real cleaning. 

So today being Thursday, it's my housework day.  Somehow my weekly schedule unites against spreading the housework out to the days when Seth is home or the days when we have preschool and errands to run, so that means that it all piles up on Thursday (with a fair helping for Saturday morning.  I miss my little house.  I could clean that thing in a afternoon.) .  I had a substantial list accumulated.  On top of the second batch of laundry and a batch of cookies, I had the bathrooms to clean, the carpets on three levels to vacuum,  and two nasty smells to track down.  It was going to be a full day. 

The day was also shaping up to be one of those days when nothing got done smoothly.  We found and dealt with one of the smells in Boogaloo's room.  (It was in the carpet.  So we worked carpet cleaner into the carpet with dust mops.  To quote the Boogaloo, "We're having fun.  This is awesome." I want to adopt her attitude. )  I wanted to cross Boo's room off the list, but she had an accident last night, and her sheets weren't dry, so we couldn't make the bed or vacuum the floor.  Okay, so we put that room on hold. I hunted down the other smell in the crisper drawer (because ginger root goes bad if you don't use it).   The fridge got a total cleaning, but the bedroom still wasn't dry.  Dagnabbit. 

Now, this would be the perfect time to start cleaning one of the bathrooms, right?  30 minutes.  Done. 

No, I came downstairs and debated whether it was time to make cookies or not.  The butter wasn't thawed, so I emptied the dishwasher.  Then Boo and I looked at baby sea turtles online.  Part of me said, "Head upstairs.  Clean a bathroom."  My conscious mind replied, "Maybe I'll vacuum now."  So I vacuumed Boogaloo's room before it was dry, got the hallway and the two staircases, and started on the main level.  Then it hit me.  I didn't want to vacuum either.  The dog wanted a walk.  The Boo wanted lunch an hour early (She must be growing again.).  The dining room was still dirty. 

I sat down at my computer and typed out a little rant about housework.  A little of the steam whistled out of my brain.  I feel better now.  I'll get up and take the dog for a walk.  Then I'll feed the Boo and take out the trash.  And then maybe, just maybe, I'll talk myself into cleaning the bathrooms. 

Open Letter to the People Who Felt the Need to Shout at Us This Morning

This is to the two women on Wednesday morning,

You felt the need to make your feelings known when you saw us standing outside the abortion clinic.  We were holding signs that said things like "Women do regret abortions" and "Choose Life."  You told us that we were ignorant and that we ought to be ashamed of ourselves.  You accused us of trying to exacerbate poverty in America.  One of you did us the courtesy of coming over and speaking to our faces.  One of you yelled at us out of the window as you drove by.  Both of you were angry.  Neither of you were inclined to listen. 

 We laughed it off and reminded each other to pray for those who persecute us.  "I'll bet that person has a hurt somewhere deep inside," is what we usually say when someone yells at us, sometimes in a sympathetic manner, sometimes with a "whoops, you missed me" jocularity.  Sometimes we huddle up on the sidewalk and have a "Can you believe this?" gossip session to relieve our feelings.  Because it hurts.

It hurts when you would assume that we have no facts to back up our stance.  No one likes to be thought of as ignorant, and you won't know how much we know until you're willing to engage with us.   Moreover, we think you really ought to listen to our facts before you start throwing things at us, literally or verbally.  For instance, you accuse us of making more unwanted children, when as the statistics stand, there are five couples waiting to adopt an infant for every one baby that is aborted in the United States.*

 

We feel hurt when you accuse us of judging you when the people standing outside that clinic  are generally the least judgmental people you're going to find.  We don't judge clothing or economic status.  We don't judge you on your ethnic background.  We don't assume that you're at an abortion clinic because you're selfish and want to live a rowdy life.  We are perfectly willing to extend you every benefit of the doubt, but we want you to consider what it is that you're about to do.  Abortion is a terrible decision. 

You accuse us of wanting to limit women's choices.  No, we want women to understand their choices, and to choose options that bring out the best for everyone.  We want them to understand that abortions lead to a higher chance of reproductive cancer, medical emergencies, suicidal depression, later pregnancy complications, sterility, and attachment disorders.  We want women to have accurate information about the development of a baby, so they can understand that in all likelihood, the baby will feel what is about to happen to it.  We want them to know that they will miss the little life that is growing inside of them. 

You accuse us of protesting innocent businesses that don't do abortions, only birth control.  No, we assure you that we spread out our resources very carefully.  The clinic we stand outside of distributes RU-486, a drug that strips the placenta out of the uterus, starves the baby to death over a period of two weeks, and then causes the uterus to go into sustained contractions to push out the necrotic fetal tissue.  They distribute this drug all the way through the first trimester.  That's an abortion. 

You tell us that babies in utero don't deserve our protection because they can't survive on their own.  Neither can you, really.  We all depend on the support of others.  But to pursue your point, babies ex utero can't survive on their own either.  Without the care of their parents, they would die in a matter of days too.  But killing a helpless baby after it is born is considered a heinous form of child abuse.   Why should killing a baby when it is even more helpless be called a decision? Logically, what is a human being the day after it was born was a human being the day before it was born.  It's the same person;  it deserves the same considerations.   

So, to the women who gave us the benefit of their opinions this morning,  I wish you wouldn't do it from a car window or on your way walking past.  I'm sure you firmly believe that you are doing what's best, but I wish you extend us the same grace and come over and really talk to us and listen to us.  We are considerate people.  We're not going to hit you over the head with our Bibles or prayer books.  We'd like the chance to show you the answers we have for your objections.  We'd like to give you the chance to consider our real position. 

I'm not going to assume that you don't want to hurt us because the whole point of public castigation is to make people feel bad so they'll stop doing what they're doing.  We are not going to stop.  You can't make us feel half as bad as the thought of 3,353 babies dying every day makes us feel or the thought of twice that many people throwing away precious life and perhaps purity in the bargain. 

If you wanted to make us flinch, you did.  If you wanted to make us leave, it's not going to happen.  We can't leave.  There's too much at stake. 

Sincerely,

JenniferA. 

*Paul Placek, “National Adoption Data”Adoption Factbook IV (National Council for Adopion, 2007), 9. in "How will we care for the "extra" children?."(April 11, 2011.) Abort73.com. Accessed February 27, 2013.  http://www.abort73.com/end_abortion/how_will_we_care_for_the_extra_children/

http://www.abort73.com/abortion/abortion_alternatives/

When my mother-in-law passed, we had to dispose of mountains of her artistic supplies.  I don't think I ever appreciated how much time and energy she sent in her art work or how diverse her interests were.  I spent most of Superbowl Sunday sorting and bagging and stacking and spreading.  There were beads and gemstones and pieces of silk and velvet, $40 scissors and long tweezer things for sliding stuffing into the hands of handmade dolls.  There were cookbooks done as scrapbooks and pieces of dragon tales.    I was more than a little overwhelmed, in more than one way.  (Thank you, Lori, for helping to organize and distribute the beading supplies.  That was way over my head.) 

 

Neither of my sisters-in-law sew, so I was bequeathed anything from MomA's sewing stash that I wanted.  There were piles and piles of fabric, so much so that I just sort of started picking up stacks and wrapping them in plastic bags.  It was only when we got home with it all that I began to go through it all, and then I had sort of an epiphany regarding her artistic capacity all over again.  There were so many beautiful pieces of fabric, so many gorgeous patterns and colors. 

 

Some felt Renaisancish (or maybe they were just reminiscent of the 70s.  I don't know.)

Some felt classical.  (Still life on cotton, anyone?)

Some felt multi-ethnic to me.  The pattern on this one feels very Asian, but the colors feel very Delft.  (I might try to make a blouse out of it if I can find the right pattern.)

Some she hand-dyed. 

Some were obviously intended for very specific projects.

As I was filing and bagging and just looking, I felt an almost overwhelming urge to drop everything and devote my life to quilting until I had done justice by all of those magnificient pieces of fabric.  There were technicolor horses and water color florals, Jungle cats, starfish, and even a dinosaur pattern.  I had been wondering how I was going to continue my newfound hobby of quilting, but now I know.  Thanks, Mom. 

A free(er) woman

For about four months, our family has been doing the single car family thing.  I've been of two minds about it.  Seth is not.  Having only one car has certainly increased our need to communicate and accomodate each other.  It has gotten us all up early to get Seth to work, and it has guaranteed that we all each lunch together at least four days a week.  But doctor's appointments were even more difficult to schedule, and Boo is about three weeks overdue for a haircut because I would rather give Seth the car at lunch than pick him up at 7:30 (which is also Boo's bedtime).  It was doable, but it was also wearing, so this past week, we bit the bullet.  Seth's yearly bonus came in, and it was just enough (with a little bit of our savings) to buy me a nice little used put-put that will get the Boo and me from here to there with a minimum of gas. 

We knew what we wanted.  25 mpg city, under 100,000 miles, room for the Boo, possibly a friend, and a trunkful of groceries, under $9000.  We were following the Dave Ramsey principal: find a clunker, pay cash, drive it until it dies, avoid debt.  We had the money to do it and the time to look around a little.  So we went looking. 

The first dealership that we went to had a pretty little Ford Focus that met all the qualifications.  Granted it was a two-door, but Boo didn't mind climbing into the backseat.  (My aunt and uncle had a two door when I was little, and I always thought climbing into the back of their car was so exciting.  I think I thought that two-doors were more sophisticated than station wagons.)  We took it for a spin.  It drove well.  The odometer said 75,000 miles. The salesman told us that it had belonged to one owner who had traded it in to trade up, nice responsible people.  It had a digital radio, which was nice, and a moonroof, which was totally unexpected.   It also had manual windows and locks, and it was missing the cover for the trunk so the hatchback acts more like a stationwagon,  but in my mind, that only added to the charm.  We were only looking for a car, not a status marker.  And I really liked it.  I mean, that's the important thing, right?

We ended up getting that car.  We were only there for a test drive, but Seth joked to the salesman that if they could give it to us for $5000, we'd sign right then.  Neither of us expected him to do anything but laugh, but he wrote up an offer and took it to his boss.  Now, no, we did not get my happy little car for $5000.  The end result was much about $6200 from an original price of $6900.  But we discovered truth of another FPU (Financial Peace University) trick: if you indicate that you'd like time to consider the deal, the dealership will very work very hard to keep you at the table.  Seth literally said "We really just want to think about it for a couple of days," twice, and they dropped the price $700 for us.  Negotiation is not as hard as I expected it to be.  It's just a matter of sticking to one's original intention (which explains why I'm very, very bad at it). 

So we signed the papers on a brilliant sunny day, handed over Seth's annual bonus plus a little extra, took possession of my car, and drove to Round Table to have lunch.  After lunch, Seth took off to go back to work, and I waited for about ten minutes while Boogaloo and I finished up our pizza, an incredible luxury for us after four months of being completely dependent on each other's schedules.  Boo and I went out to my little car, I put the key in the door, and I discovered that the lock won't turn.  The key went in.  The lock did not turn.  None of the locks turned.  I have only one key, so this wasn't an ignition-key-in-the-lock situation.  I didn't know what to do.  I called Seth.  He came back, tried the key, shimmied it, put all his manly strength and engineering knowhow behind it, and got the key to turn.  I tried again.  I still couldn't do it.  "Well," Seth says, "I guess we just won't keep anything valuable in your car."  And I won't lock it unless my husband is with me. 

Moral of the story:  Don't get so carried away by a good thing that you don't test everything.  Next time, we are going to test the key in the lock before we buy.